Mondegreen
by womanning
Summary: Enjolras has begun transitioning. The ABC Society is a newly formed LGBT center. Enjolras urges the creation of a youth group. E/R. Jehan/Courfeyrac. Etc.
1. In Which Enjolras Holds Scissors

**(rowayton, connecticut) **

_summer: tuesday_

The blades make sounds liken to the grinding of teeth when he clenches and unclenches the scissors, eyes focused on the sharp metallic and the fingers of his left hand tapping rhythmically on the sink's edge. In his ears the music of an unintelligible eighties song plays from the built-in household stereos (his mother's doing.) Replacing his view of the scissors, the hesitant fingers, he sets his eyes on the bathroom mirror and sees those hard blue eyes staring back at him—more prominently, the wild blond hair that spills too far down his shoulders, that blankets his back too thoroughly.

His fingers pause and with an angry grunt, he sets the scissors down, taking a hair tie in their place, and with rough work, pulls his hair into a ponytail. He glances back towards the mirror, fingers falling down, slowly, from his hair to rest upon his mouth, hating his confliction.

_Well, this is me, isn't it. _

Through the chorus of the song he hears the recognizable breaks of a UPS truck and exits his bathroom with big strides to the bedroom window of which faces his front yard. He pulls apart the sky blue curtains his mother has decorated his room with and peers down at the brown and yellow vehicle parked in front of this house, at the brown and yellow man walking up to his front door.

It's his mother who answers the door and similar lily hands and gold hair greets him at the bottom of the staircase, cardboard box in her grip waiting to be opened. "Look what came," she says.

He doesn't let his excitement show—all business, a straightened back; he takes the box from her.

She places a hand on his ear, brushing a loose hair there. "Let's go to the kitchen. I want to have a peek." She follows him into their kitchen and they sit on the stools lining the granite island. He takes a knife from the wood block and cuts along the tape that separates him from his order.

_summer: wednesday_

He has always had small breasts, but the binder makes them nonexistent. Summer means exposed skin, an opening for his bra to show without the security of layers of fabric—and now this is not a problem. Over the speakers his mother is playing Kate Bush's "Wuthering Heights" (he rolls his eyes, having not a clue of the lyrics, but, regardless there's a certain spring in his step.)

He dresses himself in a white shirt with short red sleeves, jeans that roll up above his ankles, and red Toms (a present from his mother, he has yet to research if he can trust this company or not. It's looking debatable.)

A wallet, cellphone, a Moleskine for thought, the essentials he places in brown leather satchel and heads downstairs to give a goodbye to his mother. On his way out, as an afterthought, he plucks one of the orchids from a vase resting atop the dresser in their foyer and places it as gently as he can into his satchel.

The train nearly full, but he finds a place to sit by himself and stare out the window. He should make it there by lunch.

The Enjolras-Combeferre friendship gave birth decades ago when two teenage girls of the past, a Robin and a Patricia, met in a South Carolinian high school, both applied to NYU, both got accepted, became roommates, and graduated, meeting their respective husbands, and continuing on their legacy with their heirs. They would sit in the park, he remembers, their mothers in sundresses, themselves in miniature outfits to match their mothers'. Mrs. Enjolras and Mrs. Combeferre would frequent back and forth between Brooklyn and Manhattan, hauling their toddlers with them. This became the normalized pattern for Enjolras and Combeferre. Once old enough to go out on their own, they began to frequent for themselves. Enjolras' home was Combeferre's home; Combeferre's home was Enjolras' home.

Combeferre was his anchor. Combeferre, who played with his hair in bed while Enjolras talked fiery, Combeferre with the often-dirty glasses of which Enjolras liked to free from Combeferre's nose to clean on his sweater.

In freshman year, Combeferre came out to him as a lesbian. (She said, "Lillian, I think I like girls. Actually, I know.")

In sophomore year, Combeferre leaned in for a kiss, leaned back, reconsidering. (She said, "I'm sorry, Lillian. I don't know what I was thinking.")

In junior year, Enjolras came out to Combeferre as transgender. (She said, "Tell me everything I need to know.")

**(manhattan, new york city) **

She has on a lacey white shirt tucked into hounds tooth check shorts, aqua sandals on her feet that go with her rectangle glasses. Her greeting is silent and calm, a hand raised in the air, the Combeferre way.

They hug—it's been a separated summer. More often than not, the Enjolras family spends their summers in their second home in Rowayton, though Enjolras, Combeferre, the gang, make sure to visit each other. This summer, however, Enjolras' kept to himself. Combeferre has allowed it without question.

Enjolras reaches into his satchel and pulls out a slightly wilted orchid and hands it to her.

She takes it, arching a dark eyebrow. "Marvelous? Thank you. Come on, the others should be at Union Square by now."

Combeferre loses the orchid in the subway.

They sit at a table, debating in voices too far away, too rushed for Enjolras comprehend. Courfeyrac with his curly head of hair and suspenders, rocking back on his chair. Feuilly swatting a hand back and forth before her face, red cheeks contrasting with her fair freckled complexion. Joly throwing his head back in laughter, a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer hanging from a keychain on his jeans. These are the Brooklyn kids, Combeferre's schoolmates, ultimately Combeferre's best friends and therefore Enjolras' best friends by default.

"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac calls out, rising from his sit the moment he spots the pair. "Long time, no see, buddy, I demand answers. Demand answers with me," he says, hitting Joly's shoulder playfully with the back of his hand.

"You would tell us if you came down with—"

"He looks just fine," Feuilly cuts in. She slouches in her worn overalls, giving a wink to Enjolras.

"Joly, just be happy he took the time to gives our sorry asses the time of day," Courfeyrac says, coming over to slap Enjolras on the back, admitting a grunt from the blond. "Though, I still demand answers."

"Oh, I am _very _happy."

The group of five relocates to a one of their favorite spots, a coffee shop called the Café Musain, this shabby chic place located in a nook around Union Square and Greenwich Village. It's all rustic tones and dimly lit crannies to sit in and it fills their ennui. They enjoy making jokes about themselves, Courfeyrac throwing the word "hipster" out every four minutes—it's their comfort source.

They all order coffee except Feuilly who enjoys hot chocolate with a hardly bashful shrug. As usual, their conversations are full of media and politic discussion. Courfeyrac, the general leader of media, Enjolras, the general leader of politics, Combeferre, the referee.

Combeferre breaks the conversation for a new subject: "Have you guys noticed the new joint next door?"

"What new joint?" Feuilly asks.

"'The ABC Society?' Got a rainbow flag so I'm assuming…"

"Oh! That place"—Joly takes a sip of his coffee—"definitely a LGBT center. My, you know, that girl I know's been there on some rough nights. Musichetta from Little Italy? I've talked about her with you, Enjolras. New, though, yeah. The guy who runs it—John something?—lives in the apartment above."

"We should check it out," Combeferre says after putting his finished coffee mug down.

They make their way out of the café, abandoning the music of what was no doubt an Indie station, Enjolras at the flank, checking a text from his mother (a question about a birthday gift idea for his father.) A girl, around six feet in height, wife-beater drenched with sweat, pushes in between them, marking Enjolras' arm with dampness.

"Fuck, man, you're slow!"

Enjolras grimaces at the glistening spots on his skin.

"You beat the shit out of me—I'm a dying child—you expect me to win in a race right after that?" A boy, unpleasant in appearance and around the same age as the girl, teeters down the sidewalk, sweating more than his companion. His eyes seem to move from the girl to Enjolras and then conform into a daze, quickening his pace, stumbling at the doorway, grabbing the girl's arm, and with a shaky "come on" they disappear inside.


	2. In Which We Are Introduced to Jehan

**(riverdale, the bronx) **

_summer: wednesday _

They are lounging on the hammock outback, pushing a finger against the brick wall of their house to gain speed, the red clothed in spidery ivy, each time they came towards it, relaxing when their hands hurt. They are cramped from writing, dirty from gardening. With a stroke of their fingers against their forehead, brown smears. It's hot. Even in shorts, a tank top, a straw hat to block the sun from their eyes, it's uncomfortably hot.

They haul one foot over the hammock, then another, and plants them on the ground, standing up, stretching their back. They take skipping leaps down the stone steps into the garden. Resting one hand on angel statue, they peer down at their reflection in the koi pond. The speckled orange fish swim around a face of ruddy cheeks, still plump with baby fat, freckled, button nose, brown eyes, light brown hair cut chin length for the summer heat and frizzy from the humidity.

With a turn, they retreat inside their house (their father likes to refer to it as his 'manor' in jesting secrecy), into the cool temperature of air conditioning. The walls are blessed with fine art, the floor decorated with wooden jockeys and individuals dressed in foreign wardrobes, and a zebra rug (to their discontent; their father enjoys hunting on the African savanna.)

They grab a cold bottled water from the refrigerator and head upstairs to their bedroom—a mess of a place, works in progress pinned to the walls, various vases of flowers, a string of colored lights strewn around the room. They trade a soaked tank top for a sleeveless floral shirt with a studded Peter Pan collar. The capris for mustard yellow mini shorts. They slipped on a pair of orange sunglasses. They picked their newest backpack—a Disney one featuring Belle, Tiana, and Ariel—and stick the water bottle in in the side pocket, throwing a few supplies in the main compartment—money, an array of pens and highlighters, two novels, three poetry books, a Moleskine made from recyclable material, their cellphone, their iTouch. Zip.

(Quickly, they smooth down their thick eyebrows, frowning at the mirror; they check their backside in the shorts, smiling at the mirror.)

Jean Prouvaire is out of the house by two-thirty.

**(on the subway)**

Jean Prouvaire picks at her chipped yellow nail polish, tapping her foot to the melody playing in her ears (she isn't sure what's playing, she's dazed out, gazing out at the blackness out the windows of the subway car). She picks a book on the topic of Renaissance art, but soon abandons it with a low exhale.

**(manhattan, new york city)**

For a late lunch, Jean Prouvaire eats a dessert Panini with pecans, cream cheese, and cinnamon. A chai tea latte. The girl behind him has a cocky, booming laughter. He writes two short poems of which end up in the Café Musain's trash.

_later _

Around three she ponders searching for a new flute to purchase, but decides against it. She hasn't taken lessons in over a year, anyway, and only plays for herself to hear.

_later_

At four twenty-four he stands in line to get a ticket at a theater in Times Square. The chilled temperature of the building contrasts drastically with the summer day and he stares down at the goose flesh on his bare legs, mixing with his array of freckles. His legs are starting to look plump and he suddenly regrets his choice in these shorts. (He realizes regardless of what he looks like the shorts would attract stares on a person like him anyway—oddly enough, this mellows his self-consciousness.)

"Or you could stop staring and offer them your jacket?"

Jean Prouvaire perks up at he sound of a voice that seems to have broken above the whisper zone and his eyes move to a group of teenagers around his age, if not a year or two older. Towards the end of the group stands a tall, slender blond and a taller brunet with striped slacks. They're attempting to whisper to each other and every now and then the blond glances back to Jean Prouvaire's spot in line.

"Why am I asking you for your flirting advice in the first place?" the taller one says, chuckling. "This is backwards, Virgin Mary."

His companion frowns with stern eyes. Relaxing their jaw, they add, "Well, they're looking right at you now. I hope you've embarrassed yourself."

Jean Prouvaire lets out a laugh and when the pair glance at him curiously he let's out an "um."

"You're talking about me," he says. "Which is okay—are you guys in line to see _The Blue Book_? It's my fourth time seeing it. It's getting Oscar nods. If Winslet doesn't win I fork over everything I hold dear to me."

The two continue to stare at him, sparking embarrassment in his chest. The blond even dares to turn away to stand closer to another girl in their group. It's the tall one that stays, a hand in his pocket, a hand in his hair, he rocks back on his heals.

"We're seeing it too, yeah," he says. "Um, what we were saying—and I'm"—he rolls his eyes—"sorry about all that—but you looked cold and I'm wearing this jacket, blazer shit in summer, because I'm one of those douchebags. I was gonna offer it to you—if you want. Sorry, I'm Billy. Well, no, I'm Courfeyrac, truly. Me and my gang, we call each other by our surnames, always have, we're nerdy little fuckers. Sorry. I'm usually smooth."

Jean Prouvaire is smiling despite himself, because this Courfeyrac is one of those people who are very ridiculous and who Jean Prouvaire enjoys very much.

"Jean Prouvaire," he says. "My friends call me Jehan."

He pauses for effect.

"At least, they would if I had any friends."

"Clever," Courfeyrac says, wearing a sloppy grin.

"Thanks, I stole it from Disney's _Hercules_."

"'Jehan,' huh."

"Yes."

"Courfey_rac_, hurry up and _pay_," the blond snaps in a loud volume from the ticket counter.

Courfeyrac waves off his friend with a wave of the hand. "Just to make sure you don't run off with my jacket, you'll just have to sit by me."

And Jean Prouvaire says, "Sounds like a fair deal."


End file.
